The Chessboard Queen Read online

  Praise for The Chessboard Queen

  “Newman’s mischievous sense of the comic never degrades the old myths; they seem honored, in fact, with compassion, wit and affection.” —Kirkus

  “Fresh viewpoint, excellent writing and delightful humor.”

  —Library Journal

  Sharan Newman reprints from Bella Rosa Books

  The Guinevere Trilogy

  GUINEVERE

  THE CHESSBOARD QUEEN

  GUINEVERE EVERMORE

  Catherine LeVendeur Mysteries

  STRONG AS DEATH

  CURSED IN THE BLOOD

  TO WEAR THE WHITE CLOAK

  THE DIFFICULT SAINT

  THE CHESSBOARD QUEEN

  ISBN 978-1-62268-063-4

  Also available from Bella Rosa Books in Trade paperback:

  ISBN 978-1-62268-062-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935714

  Copyright © 1983 by Sharan Newman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information contact Bella Rosa Books, P.O. Box 4251 CRS, Rock Hill, SC 29732. Or online at www.bellarosabooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Previously Published in the U.S.A. by St. Martin’s Press.

  First hardback edition: 1983, ISBN 0312131763.

  Tor Books mass market edition: 1997, ISBN 0312863918.

  Cover illustration by Stanley Martucci.

  BellaRosaBooks and logo are trademarks of Bella Rosa Books

  To Cathy, Kimiko, and Bev

  who know what friends are for

  Chapter One

  The misty, mysterious coast of Britain had been visible for hours, but to the man who peered at it through a blur of nausea, it did not appear to be getting any nearer. He stumbled back amidship, where his horses, even more ill than he, were hobbled and blindfolded so they could not tell what was happening to them. On his way, the man fell against one of the sailors and mumbled his worry that the island was receding constantly before them. The sailor pushed him away with a sneer.

  “Don’t be an ass! We’ve been skirting the coastline to land in Cornwall. It may take us as much as another day with the winds running against us. We’ll be tacking all the way there.”

  “But why can’t we land there?” the poor passenger moaned, pointing to the tantalizing shore.

  “Fine with me, if you want your throat cut by the Saxons. They control the whole southeastern part of Britain now and no ships but their own dare come near it. Now, why don’t you stop lurching about in our way and take care of those animals you brought? Phew! What a stink! I’d like to know what you paid the captain to let you bring them aboard. Of all the fool ideas!”

  The passenger was small, a full foot shorter than the sailor, and had to listen to his harangue for several more minutes before he could get away. At last he escaped and made it to the small shelter on deck that had been set up for the horses. He entered it and immediately slumped against the flank of the nearest one. He breathed deeply of its familiar odor and felt better, strengthened by the musky scent.

  Caet Pretani had not been in Britain for almost six years, not since he had run away from Leodegrance, his master, and begged passage on a trading ship bound for Armorica. Then he had been a boy, frightened, lovesick, and driven by a need to become something great. Now he was a man. He had attached himself to one of the grand families there and worked his way into a position of trust and honor. He had proven himself a dozen times in battles against the Franks and other northmen and made many friends among the British exiles, even the lords, who admired his riding skill and knowledge of horses.

  His dark good looks and taciturn manner had also intrigued the women of the lord’s house. The fact that he never made any advances to them was fascinating and his shy surprise at their interest very touching. Since he was never such a fool as to offend a lady with rejection, he had learned a great deal about life as well as love from the kind and often lonely women.

  Certainly his life had been as successful as his most ambitious dreams. So why was he returning to Britain, to a place that offered him nothing, where he had been born only one generation out of slavery? His friends had tried to keep him. His own lord had offered to make him master of the horse, but he had refused. He had never meant to stay away so long.

  “They won’t know me, anyway,” he reassured himself. “I’ve changed a lot, broadened in the shoulders if I’m no taller, and the beard should disguise me well enough. Who will remember me as I was then? They hardly looked at me. And I must go back. It is my land much more than theirs and I know things that Arthur doesn’t. And she . . . she may need me.”

  He clutched at the small leather bag around his neck. In it was an amulet, made and blessed for him by his greatgrandmother, Flora, and around the amulet were woven five long strands that shone pure gold when he allowed them to lie in the sun. But they were softer than metal and finer than any goldsmith could work. He would not admit that these were the real reason for his return. Whatever happened to him, even to Britain, he had to see her again. Someday there might come a time when she would. . . . He thrust the bag back under his robe. There was no point in thinking it. There were some things that Caet Pretani did not even dare to dream.

  At last the ship reached land, anchoring in the lee side of a cove on the Cornish coast. There was no town there, not even a villa, but the ship’s master knew that there were traders waiting for him not far inland. The goods he had brought were lowered into boats and rowed ashore. One man stayed to guard them while the others returned for the difficult job of getting the horses back to land.

  Caet had assured the captain that this would pose no difficulty. “I’ve made them each a canvas sling with a hook on the top. They can simply be lowered over the side as you do the other cargo.”

  With the animals standing placidly at the dock, it had seemed logical. As they were hoisted into the air on the long wooden crane, he wasn’t so sure. The nostrils of the first one lowered were flared in terror. As it landed in the rowboat, it snorted and reared. The sailors, who were waiting to row them in, leaped overboard out of the way of the hooves, leaving Caet in the boat alone. He managed to quiet it and released the sling.

  The second horse was even more frightened than the first and it had to be carefully placed next to the other to keep the balance even. Caet heard the comments from the men hanging on the side. He tried to ignore them. These animals were precious to him and he was not about to take their suggestions seriously.

  When the second horse touched the rocking boat, both of them seemed to go mad. They stamped and plunged in terror and one of them leaped into the sea, kicking a large hole in the side of the boat as it did. Caet jumped in beside it as it floundered and removed the blindfold, allowing the animal to see and swim for the shore. Caet then shouted for someone to unseal the eyes of the remaining horse. One man managed to pull the cloth away as the second animal entered the water, capsizing the boat.

  The captain stood in the prow of the ship, shaking his fist in fury and telling Caet in no uncertain terms what his fate would be when he was caught. Caet could not make out the words above the wash of the waves, but he knew that it would be well if he and his mounts were far away by the time the sailors managed to land.

  They came ashore somewhat west of the place where the trading goods had been left and so avoided the guards. Caet hurried the horses away from the coast, up a narrow rocky trail. A few hundred yards away, the forest began. Even within its shelt
er, Caet feared discovery. He led the animals farther into the woods, avoiding the traveled paths for several hours, although he knew they were exhausted from the swim and dangerously cold and wet. Finally, he realized that they could go no farther. He had begun to search for some form of shelter when he smelled a campfire nearby. The thought of warmth drove him to risk investigating it.

  He saw only one man, sitting on a log near the fire. His dinner of freshly caught rabbit was sizzling on a spit made of his short sword. Caet peered around, looking for evidence of companions, but there seemed to be no one else. The aroma of the meat reminded him that he hadn’t been able to eat anything in the whole three days of the channel crossing. He studied the man. He was big, well muscled, and held himself as if he were used to sudden action. But he was whistling merrily and that decided Caet. He stepped into the clearing, faced the man, and raised his hand in the old salute.

  “Hail, friend,” he called and his voice sounded as waterlogged as his boots. “I am a fellow traveler, in need of company and a warm fire. Will you share yours?”

  The stranger looked up at him and smiled broadly. “Surely, friend, you appear to have waded a river up to your neck. Come and dry yourself. I’ve a spare cloak in my pack. Wrap yourself in that and lay your things by the fire. There is meat enough for two. I shall be glad of company, but I would be grateful if you would give me your word that you will not entertain me with song. I have journeyed for the last month with one who never stops singing and I am willing to do almost anything else to pass the time.”

  Caet grinned and began settling his horses and himself. “You needn’t fear. I have been told that my voice is preferable only to that of a toad; therefore, I take the hint and only play the part of audience to music.”

  “An important part and highly underrated. We should get on well. Those are fine animals you have with you. Are you planning to sell them? I know where you could get a fair price.”

  Caet was busily rubbing down the horses and covering them. Their harnesses and the packs he had tied to them had not been lost. The leather bags had protected the blankets and they were wet only in places. His careful attention displayed how much he loved them.

  “They are excellently bred. They will look even better when they are rested and combed. But, no, I had not thought to sell them to anyone. This one, Cheo, is mine. I helped him into the world, set him on his legs, trained him. I could not part with him. The other, Nera, I raised as carefully. She is intended for a lady to ride. I had thought to use them both, perhaps to catch the attention of Arthur the King. I would make Nera a gift to him if he would consider hiring me as part of his court.”

  The man regarded him with interest. “So, are you one of those who hopes to join Arthur’s mysterious Knights of the Round Table? He hasn’t officially started it yet, you know, though hundreds of men have come to him in hopes of being selected. It is said that he is waiting until his new city of Camelot is built, at which time Master Merlin will somehow cause the table to appear from its hiding place and this society will commence. I don’t know about that part, but I do know that most of those who come to Arthur are not kept on, but told to search for abandoned homes in towns and villas and rebuild them, to reclaim the lands that have been lost. Nera is beautiful, but I don’t think she would be accepted as a bribe. Arthur does not even consider them.”

  Caet finished covering the horses and stood between them, his arms resting upon their necks. He frowned.

  “‘Bribe’ is a cruel word, and untrue. I would not shame myself with such a deed. But every man needs something which will help him to stand apart from others and, when one is as small as I, it is not a bad idea to be seen astride a horse of great strength and beauty.”

  The man shrugged. “Perhaps Arthur will agree with you. What name will you give him when you ride up?”

  Caet puzzled for a moment. The man seemed to be giving him a chance to hide his identity. Why? He studied his companion: dirty, with torn trews and scuffed boots. Probably a wanderer of no account. Still. . . .

  “My name is Briacu,” Caet answered. “I am from Armorica.”

  The other man held out his hand. “Gawain,” he said, “of Cornwall.”

  They shook hands solemnly. Then Gawain yawned.

  “This rabbit must be done by now. Would you care to share it with me? The sun is getting low and I am ready for my dinner.”

  Caet, now Briacu, was more than ready for his and they spoke little as the small animal was split between them. Gawain leaned back on the log, picking his teeth with a bone splinter. He stared curiously at Caet.

  “You don’t have the look of one from Armorica,” he decided. “You seem more like the oldest ones, the Britains who were here before the Romans.”

  Caet seemed surprised. “Do I?”

  Gawain yawned again. “Autumn is coming. Darkness falls earlier every day.” He pulled out blankets from his pack and wrapped himself in them.

  “If you want to keep watch tonight, it’s fine with me, although there isn’t much around to bother us,” he murmured tiredly. “We’ll talk again in the morning. Good night!”

  “But the sun has barely set!” Caet exclaimed. “Do you not wish to share the fire and talk?”

  There was no answer from the blankets. Caet knelt by him and tried to shake Gawain into a response, but got nothing but a soft snore for his trouble. He moved to the other side of the fire. Whatever was being said about the old ones and their gods dying out, he was sure from the oddness of the man across from him that there were still many strange creatures left in Britain. He began to wonder if his decision to return had been wise, after all.

  Caet awoke early the next morning to find Gawain already about and loading his own horse for travel. He scrambled up, annoyed that this vagabond was going to leave him with no word. Gawain heard the movement and turned to him with a wide smile. The look on Caet’s face betrayed his suspicions. Gawain laughed.

  “I have stolen nothing from you, friend Briacu. As a matter of fact, you seem to have nothing to steal. And, if you don’t mind making a meal of cold meat and stale bread, you are more than welcome to share them and to accompany me to Caerleon.”

  “Caerleon?” Caet echoed, still not fully awake. “What is there? Do you have business there?”

  Gawain laughed again. “I may be given some when I arrive. My aunt and uncle live there and I intend to visit them for a while. When the days grow short, I prefer to make my bed by a warm hearth, tended by friends. And if you still mean to submit yourself to Arthur, then that is your direction, too. He keeps winter court at Caerleon.”

  Caet pulled himself up and realized that his horses had been loaded and were ready to leave. What an irritating fellow this Gawain was! Why should he assume that Caet would go with him? Still, Caet wasn’t sure that he remembered the roads in this part of Britain and he had never been as far west as Caerleon. He could look on the man as simply a guide. He had a few coins sewn into the belt of his trews. When they reached Caerleon, he could pay the man off and that way end the relationship. If the man truly had family at Caerleon, he wouldn’t need to presume upon the acquaintanceship. Oh, how Caet’s body ached! Fortunately, the muscles used in riding were not the ones he had exercised aboard ship. But his legs were still weak and his insides raw from retching. He took the food Gawain held out and ate it quickly, then wrapped up his meager pack and climbed onto his horse. The familiarity of the mount beneath him eased his anxiety, but he longed to reach the court of Arthur, to place his gift before the Queen and, this time, to serve her with honor.

  • • •

  Guinevere loved Caerleon. It was old, Roman, and comfortable. It had been the permanent headquarters of the Second Augusta for two hundred years and the legion had wanted the best when it was home. But all the soldiers had been called away, almost a hundred years before, withdrawn by a terrified emperor to help support his crumbling throne. Or had they gone with one of the British generals who claimed the purple, like Macson Wledig?
Guinevere could never remember. But they had gone and the fortress at Caerleon had lain empty, lonely, haunted, perhaps. Until Arthur had remembered it and set to work to restore it as his winter capital, it had been just another enigmatic relic of a greater age. Arthur had seen it with the same military viewpoint the first centurions must have had. The strategic reason for building it had not changed. It lay at the mouth of the Usk river, cloaked by hills and fog. The Usk valley drifted farther west to Brecon, should retreat become necessary. One of the finest of the Romans’ roads stretched almost intact to the east and the heart of the Saxons’ territory. Caerleon was easily defended and well built.

  The last was all that concerned Guinevere. It was a wonderful home. Everything was there: living quarters designed for various ranks, granaries, kitchens, workshops, and bathhouses, two of which were still in working order. The rooms were solid and warm. And in the valley below there was a town which had somehow managed to survive the abandonment of the legion. Guinevere leaned over the edge of the tower to admire it again. Just a few streets lay below, but it was neatly planned, with a forum in the center and a church at the far end of the main road. There were even shops there! Guinevere had never been to a town except for her marriage in London, and shops amazed and delighted her. People living down there made pots and pewterware and wove cloth and baked sweet cakes. She could wander through the shops and choose whatever she wanted. On her father’s estate these things had been done to order, often by itinerant craftsmen.

  There had been little chance to select. Here whole families worked at their trades and grew in skill from childhood. It was wonderful to go down there and wander through the forum, hearing the sellers’ cries, watching a juggler or tumbler. Since Arthur had brought business back again, the old roadhouse had been refurbished, with public baths behind. When emissaries began to come, they would know that they were not dealing with some upstart general, but a real king.